


Convergent Evolution

by sharkhette



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alpha Centauri (Good Omens), Angel Sexuality (Good Omens), Angel Wings, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Drinking & Talking, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 18:14:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkhette/pseuds/sharkhette
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale share a bottle of wine and talk about evolution, bird wings, and David Attenborough, before deciding to go to Alpha Centauri together after all. In the morning, though. After they've had a nap and sobered up.____________________"What about one of those birds-of-paradise? I just watched a documentary about them on the BBC from that English fellow, that naturalist who’s so popular nowadays. They puff up their chests, like so—" Aziraphale demonstrated, shimmying his shoulders from side to side, looking absurd— "And then they do a little dance." He looked brightly to Crowley for confirmation. "That could be you.""It could not," Crowley objected indignantly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Convergent Evolution

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to state that evolution is definitely real, and so are ecosystems.

Aziraphale and Crowley were both very slightly drunk, Aziraphale having begun his day drinking tea before switching to cocoa, gradually adding alcohol over the course of several hours. As evening approached, he switched entirely over to wine. On the other hand, Crowley had been drinking alcohol from the outset, but his tolerance was marginally better, which made it seem as though both entities were on equal footing.

Dusk found them ensconced together in Aziraphale's bookshop, drinks in hand, which was an increasingly common occurrence following the failed end of the world. Aziraphale sat tucked tidily in his most comfortable armchair, while Crowley sprawled bonelessly over the couch, a wineglass miracled out of thin air and dangerously close to spilling its contents all over the upholstery. The cushions had a long history of having all manner of things spilled over them, most often done in a state of inebriation, and though the stains had been miracled away and the couch didn't look any worse for wear, it still remembered the indignities, and judged Crowley as a bad influence on Aziraphale’s otherwise pristine and fastidious nature.

This was a common misconception held by most people and things: that because of their celestial nature, angels must be clean and pure in every way, including but not limited to their chosen habitat. But in fact angels were as varied in their habits and preferences as humans, and Aziraphale in particular was not especially tidy or pristine. His bookshop was a testament to this fact, as it was perpetually cluttered, disorganised, and all of its contents covered in dust. This was partially to deter any potential customers from making an easy purchase, but also, more simply, due to his nature. He was inherently untidy, and there was nothing more to it than that.

In contrast, Crowley was strictly organised, and as much a minimalist as Aziraphale was a maximalist. His flat was a stark example of severe lines and empty spaces, kept ruthlessly clean and uncluttered. His houseplants didn't dare drop a single leaf, and even the dust motes were too intimidated to touch down.

Which is all to say that the couch was mistaken in placing its blame on Crowley, because, though it was true that Crowley did often spill his drink, it was usually because Aziraphale had driven him to drunken distraction and flailing of limbs.

In this instance, the distraction was due to a conversation on the topic of evolution.

Evolution, of course, had never happened and did not exist. Aziraphale and Crowley both knew this for a fact.

"But it _should_ have happened," said Crowley. "The Almighty put so much effort into making it look real that She could have just as easily spent that energy in starting the world a few hundred millennia earlier and letting it actually run its course. The joke took way more effort than it seems worth." Sloshing his drink dangerously in his cup, he raised one hand to point a warning finger in Aziraphale's direction. "And don't you tell me it's all ineffable. Of course it's ineffable. It just doesn't seem very energy-efficient, is all I'm saying."

"I don't know what's so efficient about the theory of evolution," said Aziraphale. "To spend all that time moving through all those different forms to get to the final one, when they could have just been designed properly from the start—that seems like the bigger waste to me. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Evolution _didn't_ happen, it _wasn't real_ , and it's really none of our business why She chose to do things as She did."

"It does make you wonder, though, doesn't it? Especially when it comes to us. I mean, look at you and me. Obviously our bodies are custom-made rather than—" Crowley waved his free hand in a vague gesture to signal his distaste at the idea of having a body birthed by more organic means— "But I was a snake, originally. A big, proper snake. And we’ve both got wings, metaphysical though they might be, in whatever form we take. That's got to mean something."

"It means we were both originally angels," Aziraphale said primly over the rim of his cup, which was the same mug he had been drinking tea and cocoa out of, now filled with a particularly good vintage wine that had been unavailable on Earth for the past two hundred years.

"So, are birds based on angels? But we didn't really have feathered wings back in Heaven. It was all complicated celestial grace stuff. It's not like any of us had physical bodies up there, not really. Not like we do down here. So when they started issuing physical bodies and our wings got more physical too, at least when we wanted them to be, did they model our wings after birds instead of the other way around?"

Aziraphale blinked as he tried to process that, suddenly concerned. "No, I don't think that's right. We came first, after all." He swallowed weakly. "Perhaps it's a coincidence."

"If evolution were real, you could call that a convergent trait," Crowley drawled, taking a long draft from his wineglass. "But if it really is all intentional design then Someone must have known what they were doing. If it's ineffable then there are no coincidences."

“I don’t like that at all,” Aziraphale muttered into his drink.

"Look, all I'm saying is that She should throw the humans a bone. That's all."

"She has thrown them a bone. She's thrown them lots. They're called fossils."

Crowley cast around for something to throw at the smug-looking angel and landed on a bookmark, which fluttered pathetically to the ground between them. "I would’ve liked to meet a dinosaur," he said after a second. "Giant dragony type thing. Sounds brilliant. I think it's a shame they're not real."

"What would you have done with a dinosaur? They're much too big to be manageable. Better that they stay in the realm of fiction, I think."

"According to evolution, birds are descended from dinosaurs. Actually, according to some humans, dinosaurs were supposed to have had feathers."

"What, walking around like big, murderous chickens?" Aziraphale asked incredulously.

"More like ostriches, I imagine. Or those cassowary things from Australia or wherever they come from. Those murder-birds, you know the ones. Can't fly, but they've got these enormous knife-sized claws on their feet, absolutely deadly."

"Oh, they must be from Australia, then," said Aziraphale knowledgeably. "Everything seems quite intent on killing people down there."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, Crowley seemingly deep in thought pondering the workings of science and the universe, while Aziraphale deemed it safer to focus on his drink.

"I rode an ostrich once," said Crowley. "Wouldn't recommend it."

"When? _Why?_ "

"It was worse than riding a horse, but not as bad as riding a camel. Do you remember riding camels? What a miserable experience that was."

"Yes, rather. Though I expect for you everything pales in comparison to that infernal metal deathtrap you have now."

Crowley scoffed. "Just because you don't appreciate technology—"

"It's not that I don't appreciate technology," Aziraphale countered, as he always did whenever this conversation reared its head. "I just appreciate keeping my body in one piece and avoiding unnecessary discorp—disc—orption. Orption? No...”

“Discorp—orp—” Crowley tried.

“Discorporealisation!” Aziraphale exclaimed triumphantly, then paused, suddenly unsure if that was a word at all.

"I've never discorporated you."

"No, I suppose you haven't."

Crowley took another drink, then said, "I bet you've got goose wings or something."

"I do not have goose wings!" Aziraphale protested. Then, more quietly: "If I have to be compared to any bird, I'd like it to be something with a bit more dignity than a goose. Like a swan, maybe."

"What's wrong with geese? Perfectly good bird, that. Swans, on the other hand: nasty, cantankerous things. Always in a bloody awful mood, hissing and chasing people around the parks. They bully the other birds, you know. Chase them right out of the pond. Ducks included." Crowley paused and looked at Aziraphale in consideration. "Not unlike how you chase the customers out of your shop, come to think." He raised his glass in acknowledgement. "Maybe you have got swan wings. Sure, why not. I'll give you swan wings. Though I still don't know what's so bad about geese."

"Oh, ducks, though!" Aziraphale said brightly, as if having just been reminded of the species. "I do like ducks. Those plump little white ones with the short beaks from the Netherlands—have you seen those? They’re lovely, and they always look so delightfully cheerful. I wouldn't mind sharing wings with one of those."

"So much for going for a dignified species, then."

"Hush, you. I'm far too tipsy to keep up with my own arguments." Aziraphale took another sip of his drink. "What about you, then? You've got those lovely black wings. You'd probably go for a raven or something, I expect."

"Ravens are much too cliché. I'd like something at least as original as your little Dutch duck."

"A starling, maybe," Aziraphale continued, either ignoring or not listening to Crowley's commentary. "Although a starling isn’t nearly flashy enough for you, is it, my dear? You'd want something much more eye-catching, like a vulture or one of those red-winged blackbirds. You like red."

"You think vultures are eye-catching?" Crowley asked bemusedly. "Maybe the bird as a whole, sure, but the wings on their own are nothing special, I don't think. Anyway, that’s as cliché as the raven, a demon with vulture wings. No sense of individuality in that.”

"What about one of those birds-of-paradise? I just watched a documentary about them on the BBC from that English fellow, that naturalist who’s so popular nowadays. Tropical birds that go bopping around, bright as anything, with all these flashy symbols painted on to attract everyone's attention. They puff up their chests, like so—" Aziraphale demonstrated, shimmying his shoulders from side to side, looking absurd— "And then they do a little dance in the treetops, or maybe on the ground, I can't quite remember now, in order to attract a mate." He looked to Crowley for confirmation. "That could be you."

"It could not," Crowley objected indignantly. "Some poncy little jungle bird? What about a falcon? Or an eagle or something?"

"Really, my dear, you have more in common with a grackle than an eagle."

"No. Absolutely not. Go back to the vulture, I liked that one. That one was fine."

In actual fact, it would be impossible to match either Aziraphale’s or Crowley's wings to any existing species of bird. Crowley did not have a vulture's wings any more than Aziraphale had a swan’s, though a casual observer could be forgiven for finding similarities, if only on a very surface level. As soon as one got close enough to examine the wings in detail, it became glaringly obvious that neither the angel nor the demon had much of anything in common with Earthly birds at all. Aziraphale's wings shone with the blinding white light of the universe, the kind of light found in the centre of the sun, or the light that emanated from the holy throne, pure grace through and through. His wings were broad, the primary feathers long and blunt, while the smaller feathers close to the bone were thick and round, giving way to delicate, fluffy down where they met his shoulder blades. Those downy feathers would be quite impossible for the casual observer to study, as they were hidden under his clothes at all times, and besides which, they didn't really exist. Though his body was very real and very solid, having been designed and built to his specifications six thousand years ago, his wings didn't exist on the same material plane as that body. His wings existed on every plane at once, simultaneously and infinitely, but weren't visible to human eyes on Earth. Ethereal or occult beings, however, could always see his wings, whether he intended to show them off not, just as ethereal or occult beings could see Crowley’s.

In contrast, Crowley's wings were as sleek as the rest of him, long primary feathers tapering to a point that looked sharp enough to cut. They were solid black, not the black of a raven’s wing, but the deep, all-encompassing void-black of outer space, or the emptiness that existed before God created the universe and filled it up with glittering stars.

The only real difference between Aziraphale’s and Crowley's wings was visual. While the casual observer might assume that the difference was the colour, or, at a stretch, perhaps the shape, the real difference between Aziraphale's wings and Crowley’s was the amount of grooming put into them. Aziraphale's wings were, and consistently had been since the very beginning, a disaster. The feathers were perpetually ruffled, sticking out every which way as if he had rolled out of bed in the morning with them looking like that and then never taken a single step to try to neaten them. (Aziraphale didn't actually have that excuse, as he didn't partake in sleep.) Because they didn't physically exist in the same way that his hair or his clothes could be said to physically exist, he never paid any mind to their state, and simply tucked them out of sight and out of the way.

Crowley took personal offence to this.

Just as the visual embodiment of Crowley's wings matched his personal style and taste in fashion, so too did his maintenance of them reflect his maintenance of his flat, his clothes, and his hair. He loathed to have a single feather out of place, insisting that it was for comfort as much as it was for style, and rolled his eyes whenever Aziraphale pointed out that while the humans might be impressed by his fashion choices, they were physically incapable of appreciating the effort he put into his wings.

"That's not the point, whether they can see them or not. Anyway, the rest of Hell can see them, and I’m not about to be shown up by some demonic nonce that thinks wearing a lizard on his head is the pinnacle of style. It's about comfort, angel. I would think that you of all people would understand that, with all your hedonistic tendencies. And I don't mean that in a bad way," Crowley added before Aziraphale could object. "I mean, I'm as hedonistic as they come. Nothing wrong with it. I don't think you can survive six thousand years on Earth without indulging in a spot of hedonism here and there—it's inevitable, really. Earth was practically made for it. The point is—the point is that you embrace comfort in every other aspect of your life down here, so why not make your wings more comfortable too?"

"They’re perfectly comfortable as they are, thank you very much."

"Is it just that you can't be bothered?" Crowley wondered aloud. "I know it takes a little extra effort, looking after them on the physical plane like this, but it really is worth the trouble."

"They haven't even really got feathers unless I want them to. I don't see all the fuss about grooming them for hours on end and preening in front of mirrors to make sure that I've got them looking just right when no one but you can see them, and they don't bother me as they are."

"You keep up appearances with everything else, though. Every other aspect of your physicality, you put an awful lot of effort into, from your vintage clothes to your visits to the barber to those specific colognes you keep switching back and forth between, trying to decide which one suits you best."

"My clothes aren't vintage! They’re mine, I bought them myself, and they were the very height of fashion at the time."

"Those clothes have never been fashionable, angel."

"Just because I'm not preoccupied with keeping up with all the current fashion trends—these youths with their skinny jeans and their cropped tops and their… Oh, I don't know what else. I'm quite comfortable with what I wear and how I dress and how I keep my wings. I don't need any of your trendy leather jackets or scarves or designer eyeglasses."

"Can you imagine yourself wearing skinny jeans and a crop top?" Crowley asked with a grin. "I bet in another fifty years or so you’ll be wondering what you missed out on, and you'll give it a go. And then you’ll wear nothing but that for the next century, the same way you've been wearing nothing but these three-piece tartan suits for the past one."

Aziraphale shuddered and shook his head. "I'd really rather not imagine that, if you don't mind."

"Well, I'm imagining it, and I think that's traumatising enough for the both of us." Crowley drained the end of his glass, vanished the empty cup, and kicked his legs over the arm of the couch, adopting an exaggeratedly languid pose. He lounged there for a moment, looking seconds away from returning to his great serpentine form, before snapping to attention and saying, "Wait,” like he had just realised something of the utmost importance. Aziraphale straightened up and looked around for the source of his sudden intensity. “Hang on a minute. What do you mean you were watching a programme on the BBC? Since when have you got a telly?"

"Well, I don't watch much on it, but I bought a set back in the 1960s. I was curious about the technology, and it’s really quite impressive, the things humans can create. But I must confess I don't really understand the appeal of it."

"So you've just had that thing sitting in your flat for the past sixty years, gathering dust along with all the other curiosities you've collected during your time on Earth?"

"Yes, I suppose I have. I only dusted it off to watch this BBC programme because it was one of mine, you see. I may have given a nudge to certain people in order to encourage this Attenborough chap's popularity. He’s very good on the conservation and environmental points, and I thought it would benefit the Earth as a whole. Heaven didn't seem terribly impressed with my work, but they never really were." Aziraphale hid his face behind his mug for second to disguise how much it pained him to finally admit that. But he had been coming to terms with Heaven's disappointment over the past several weeks since the world didn't end, and it was getting easier.

"You could just go off to whatever jungle it was and see the birds in person," Crowley suggested, "if you really wanted to."

"I wanted to see the programme itself, but you're quite right. I do sometimes miss traipsing all over the world the way we used to do, before I set up the shop. I'm not sure how I found myself living in London full-time, to be quite honest. It suits me perfectly well, don't get me wrong, but we used to do an awful lot more travelling than we do now, and I do get nostalgic for it sometimes."

"Not sure why I chose London either," Crowley agreed, his tone turning morose. "Or England in general. Not my first choice of climate, with the weather being like it is. Nothing but grey skies and rain and damp gloom for months on end, no matter what the season is supposed to be." A sudden thought soaked into his inebriated brain and he perked up, straightening his back and swinging his feet to the floor as if he meant to get up that very instant. "I'd go to the tropics with you and see all those flashy birds and whatnot if you wanted some company. Could be fun." He paused. "Not the bugs, though. Do you remember the bugs last time we were down in the tropics? Midges and mosquitoes—" Wrinkling his nose, he flapped one hand at Aziraphale as if the ghosts of those pesky insects were still with him in the room. "Can't be dealing with those bugs again. Humans make all sorts of sprays to fend them off now, but I bet the little buggers could find their way around that." Another pause, this one longer. "Or, at least, they'd figure out a way around the sprays if evolution were real. Do you think God wants the humans to find a way to obliterate the insects? Seems like that would upset the ecosystem and all that. Are ecosystems real? Or are they like evolution?" He flopped back against the couch. "This is all beyond my pay grade. But I’d still go to the tropics to see the birds, if you wanted to."

Aziraphale was taken aback, less because of the offer and more by the general derailment of the conversation. "Thank you, my dear, but I really hadn't considered it a priority. I suppose a change of scenery would be nice," he added, as Crowley seemed to take his words as a rejection, and was beginning to curl in on himself. "I could close the shop for a few weeks without anyone paying it much mind. And it's not like Upstairs has any expectations for me at the moment in terms of duties to perform. I'm sure the two of us could slip away for a little bird-watching without anyone becoming overly concerned about our actions."

"Bird-watching doesn't really compare to everything else they've caught us doing at this point," Crowley agreed dryly, uncurling again now that Aziraphale wasn’t likely to shoot him down.

"And as far as the insects go," Aziraphale added, "I think I could miracle them away from us without disrupting the local ecosystem."

Crowley flashed him a bright grin, the kind that always made Aziraphale’s stomach swoop and his insides go all warm, like the first bubbling taste of a good bottle of champagne. Flushing, he hurriedly looked away as Crowley said, "Brilliant! We'll do that, then." Crowley paused then, and pushed his glasses further up his nose, securing them in place. "But _I'm_ not a bird. Might have bird wings, sure, but definitely not a bird, tropical or whatever else. I'm still a serpent."

"Yes," Aziraphale said in a tone that he meant to be patronising, but really it came out terribly fond. "You're still the original serpent, tempting people left and right."

"I've just tempted you to the tropics, haven't I?"

"If you're going to call _that_ a temptation—"

Crowley waved him off before he could finish the sentence. "Hardly a temptation. Not really anything of the sort. At the risk of sounding sentimental—" Crowley curled his lip like the very word left a bitter taste in his mouth— "Then it was really more of an offer between friends."

It was Aziraphale's turn to smile and Crowley’s to look away.

"Very well, then. I must say, I do prefer this offer to the last one. The tropics are an awful lot closer than Alpha Centauri, and won't take nearly as much effort to get to."

"No mosquitoes in Alpha Centauri, though," Crowley pointed out.

"No, there aren't," Aziraphale agreed. He turned his mug back and forth between his hands a few times, his gaze fixed on the light reflecting off the liquid inside it, unable to look at Crowley as he said, "If you were to ask me to go there with you now, when we’re not trying to outrun Armageddon…"

He glanced up just for a second, his gaze skittering nervously over Crowley, to find that he had frozen perfectly still, his hands white-knuckled on top of his knees where he sat, every ounce of his attention fixed on Aziraphale like the angel was delivering the word of God Herself.

"I mean," Aziraphale stammered. "I've never been there myself, and it does look so terribly scenic. It might be nice to go as tourists, as the humans say—"

"Yes," Crowley said hoarsely, looking like he was exerting all his energy to keep himself in place rather than leaping to his feet and whisking them away that very moment. "Yes, I’d like that. If you came with me. Not forever, not now that Earth is going to be here for the foreseeable future, but to visit— It's one of my favourite places in the universe, you know. Absolutely beautiful. And I'd like you to come see it with me."

"I didn't realise it was so personal to you."

"I helped make that one, actually," Crowley said quietly. "Designed it from scratch. It wasn't my first star system, but it's the one where I had the most creative licence."

"I didn't know you used to design the cosmos."

"Yeah." Crowley ran one hand through his hair, sighing and looking away. "A lot more creatively fulfilling than the stuff Hell had me doing down here, I can tell you that. But still. No use looking back on old times. I try not to."

"There are plenty of good times to look forward to. More now than we've ever had, really. You could do anything you wanted. Even bigger things than going to the tropics or visiting the stars, now that Hell doesn't expect anything of you."

"I think someone bigger than Hell might intervene if I start designing new galaxies all of a sudden. But you're right. For just about anything else, the world is my oyster!"

"I haven't had oysters in a while," Aziraphale said thoughtfully, then shook his head. "Sorry, sorry, my dear. I'm not trying to change the topic."

"It's alright, we can get oysters. Why not. Call it a celebration: the world didn't end, we're being left alone, and everything is good. If that doesn't call for oysters, I don't know what does."

"Are we still celebrating? I thought we had already celebrated saving the world. We seem to be celebrating it every evening, from what I can tell."

"We've been getting drunk in your bookshop for years without any reason at all, angel. It hardly counts as a celebration if it's the same thing we were always doing. No— Let's celebrate with something bigger. Let's get out of here, really shake things up, at least for a little while. Why shouldn't we? It's not like anyone's going to stop us, not now. Not after everything."

Aziraphale glanced around, all aflutter, one hand pressed to the front of his waistcoat. "Do you mean right at this moment? I said I would go with you—or you said you would go with me—but I don't want to just abandon the shop at the drop of hat. I am technically a business professional, you know. I pay taxes and everything. Well, sort of. Taxes are paid in the business owner's name, at any rate. But it's not as if I have a National Insurance number."

Crowley looked at him from over the top of his glasses. "Taxes were invented by my lot, you know. If we were still playing sides, you'd be better off not paying them at all."

"I couldn't _not_ pay them! They might have been invented by your side, but now they're a staple of upholding decent society." Aziraphale paused. "Not that we have sides anymore, as you say."

Crowley rolled his eyes and waved him off. "Fine, fine. Pay your taxes if you want to. And we don't have to go right this second. I fancy a nap, to be quite honest." As if in proof, he cracked an enormous yawn around the words. "Tell you what. I'll head on back to mine, have a kip, sober up, and then I'll come round in the morning to collect you and we'll head off then. That should give you plenty of time to get your things in order."

"I don't think you really understand at all what goes into running a business, but alright."

"As if you do. You do realise that in order to run a successful bookshop, you're supposed to actually be selling the books?"

"Oh, hush."

Grinning, Crowley rolled himself up off the couch to stand, luxuriating in a great stretch from top to bottom, his arms over his head in a way that accentuated the fact that his spine was still more serpentine than human. "I'll see you in the morning, angel."

"You could stay here, if you like," Aziraphale said quickly, before he could lose his nerve and change his mind. Crowley stilled, staring at him. "It's a bit silly for you to go trekking all the way back to your flat only to turn around and come straight back here first thing in the morning. I've got a room upstairs you can sleep in. It's got a bed and everything. I've never really used it myself—never got the hang of sleeping, I'm afraid—but it looks quite comfortable. Maybe not up to your standards as far as style goes, but I always thought that a bed was a bed." He finally shut his mouth to stop any more embarrassing words from tumbling out.

"Thanks," Crowley said slowly, "but the couch would be fine, really."

"Oh, you can't sleep on the couch. It's really not in any fit state. Besides which, it resents you just a bit for all the drinks you've spilled on it over the years. I wouldn't trust it not to smother you in your sleep."

Crowley glanced back at the couch. The couch did indeed look a touch resentful at his presence.

"Alright, I guess I can sleep upstairs. Didn't realise your furniture had such strong opinions about me."

"I'm sure the bed doesn't," Aziraphale hastened to assure him, rising from his armchair (which viewed Crowley as an amusement rather than an inconvenience, on account of never having been sat in by him), to shepherd Crowley towards the tiny staircase that led to the modest-sized flat above the shop.

"Are you joining me?" Crowley asked languidly as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

They both froze, Aziraphale's lips slightly parted as if he had been about to speak, but the words had fled entirely. Crowley blinked once, visibly torn between backtracking and holding his ground, before apparently deciding to simply wait Aziraphale out.

 _Be brave_ , Aziraphale told himself. Heaven might still be watching, but they were free agents now, and didn't have to answer to any higher or lower power for their choices.

"Would you like me to?" he asked, his voice trembling just a little bit.

"Well, it's your bed. Might be a bit awkward if you don't actually sleep, but when's the last time you tried?"

"Not since the sixteenth century, if I recall correctly. I just sort of laid there and thought about all the things I could be doing instead."

"Sounds like the time I tried meditation in the 60s. Sleeping is great, though, once you get it figured out. I slept through almost the whole fourteenth century."

"Yes, well, you were still getting points for sloth back then. But I suppose a few hours couldn't hurt."

"That's the spirit. And if you hate it, you don't have to do it again. I don't even do it all that often; mostly just in the winter when it gets too cold and I go all sluggish, or after a really good meal. Or, in this case, a few bottles of really good wine. It's nice to just pass out for a bit after something like that. Feels great. Humans have definitely got the right idea in this case. Animals, too."

"I said I would try it. You don't have to keep pushing the temptation at this point, my dear." Aziraphale gave Crowley a prod to get him moving up the stairs before Aziraphale could change his mind about the whole endeavour.

Traipsing up the stairs took a few seconds longer than usual, as they were both firmly entrenched in the clumsy stage of tipsiness, but once they reached the top, there was nowhere to go but straight into the bedroom. It was a very small flat, really just a single room, and while most building owners would have outfitted it with modern appliances and some sort of kitchen, Aziraphale had never bothered. He had never seen the point in cooking for himself when humans had perfected the art themselves—not that he really needed to eat to sustain his body—and if he got peckish in the middle of the night when all his favourite restaurants were closed, he could always miracle himself to some other part of the world that _was_ open and satisfy his craving that way. He hadn't been that desperate since the crêpe incident of the French Revolution, and even though Heaven was no longer tracking his use of miracles, it still felt a bit desperate, and was something he preferred to avoid.

In any case: the upstairs flat was really just a bed surrounded by yet more bookshelves and as many boxes of books as he couldn't fit in the shop itself. Which meant that once the stairs were behind them, there was really no way for Aziraphale to faff about and avoid the situation. The bed was extremely obvious. Crowley didn't have any of Aziraphale's hesitation, walking straight up to the bed and falling onto it face-first, his arms at his sides and his feet dangling off the edge of the mattress, lanky body sprawled diagonally from one corner to the other, his face having just missed the pillows.

"It's comfy," he said, his voice muffled to the point of unintelligibility.

"Are you going to sleep like that?"

"I could." Crowley wriggled around, flipping onto his back and shuffling up the length of the bed to lean against the headboard in a much more civil position. "But I won't." He gave the empty stretch beside him an inviting thump. "Come on, then. The sooner we pass out, the sooner it'll be tomorrow and we can get on with things."

"I'm sure that's not how time works." Gathering himself, Aziraphale crossed the short distance from the doorway to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, swinging his feet up on top of the covers and shuffling around until he mirrored Crowley's position. "Well," he said, folding his hands over his middle. "Isn't this nice?"

"Is it? You don't look like you're enjoying yourself much."

"Well, it's just a bit… Do we just sit here and wait until we fall asleep?"

"I mean, yeah, pretty much."

"What a waste." Huffing a sigh, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and miracled up a fresh bottle of wine. Taking a swig directly from the bottle, he swallowed, grimaced, and then passed it over to Crowley, who accepted it with a bemused, "Cheers."

Crowley took a drink and then passed it back again before leaning in close, sliding his glasses down an inch to peer intently at the label on the bottle in Aziraphale's hand. "What vintage is this, anyway? Tastes familiar."

"Do you remember that little vineyard in Genova just after 1000 B.C.? A charming little place on the edge of the Mediterranean. We ran into each other there on the cusp of the Crusades. I think most of the family sailed off to fight, and the vineyard didn't survive long after that, but they had the loveliest white wine I've ever tried."

"Oh yeah, I remember. You were awfully upset about the war coming, and I wanted to get you drunk to cheer you up. It mostly worked, at least temporarily. But you didn't really trust me yet."

"No, I was trying very hard not to."

"Unlike now?" Crowley asked, and though his tone was clearly teasing, Aziraphale detected a vulnerable note to it, the kind no one would notice unless they were paying very close attention.

"Quite unlike now," Aziraphale said firmly.

By the time the bottle was mostly gone he had loosened up considerably, the warmth from the alcohol flooding him and relaxing his limbs, and he let his head drop back against the headboard as he undid his bowtie and the top button of his shirt, letting the collar fall open.

"This is a new look for you," Crowley noted lazily. 

The demon had slithered down to sprawl against the pillows sometime earlier, bonelessly content, his head barely propped up on one elbow as he gazed up at his companion. Flushed and now far gone past tipsy, Aziraphale revelled in the attention. It was a lovely, floaty feeling, and one that reminded him of simpler times, like being back in the Garden of Eden before he had to worry about the politics of Heaven and Hell, or befriending a demon. Furthermore, it inspired in him an optimism that such simpler times could be waiting on the horizon once more, now that they had left all such beastly politics behind.

"Is it a good look?" he asked shamelessly.

"I like it."

Emboldened, or maybe just drunk enough that he didn't care anymore, Aziraphale slumped to rest his head on the pillow, body angled towards Crowley so they lay face-to-face. It was tremendously comfortable, all his worries carried downriver by the stream of his inebriation. Heat radiated from Crowley, for all that he was supposed to be cold-blooded, and without really thinking it through, Aziraphale reached over and took one of his hands. Crowley's skin was warm and dry, his long fingers ending in neatly manicured nails, and Aziraphale clasped his hand between both of his for no reason other than that he could.

"I thought I might paint them," Crowley said absently.

"Your fingernails? That would look nice. Black, I imagine."

"Course."

As they lay like that, Aziraphale's mind began to wander, and he distantly realised that this must be the appeal of sleep: the heavy, contented drowsiness that came from laying somewhere soft and comfortable in trusted company.

"The thing is," he said, his gaze meandering over Crowley's form, "I don't really want to fall asleep. I'd rather just stay here like this, with you. Enjoying the moment, as it were."

Crowley yawned, burying his face in the pillow until he was done. Emerging, he said, "We can have as many moments as we want, going forward. This one doesn't have to be special."

"It is, though," said Aziraphale quietly, tracing the lines of Crowley's palm.

"Alright. Let's stay awake then." A pause. "Bit boring to stay in bed just staring at each other, though."

"Have you got any better ideas?"

Crowley returned to his back, though he didn't remove his hand from Aziraphale's grasp. "We could just keep drinking."

"I'm quite comfortable as I am. I think getting any drunker than this would be a mistake. Also, I'm not sure where that bottle ended up. Either one of us miracled it away again, or I put it on the floor. Or maybe lost it under the pillows somewhere."

"Mm. Suppose if you don't want to spoil the moment by sleeping, it's no good spoiling it with rampant alcoholism either. We could just, I don't know. Talk."

"About what?"

"Those ducks you were going on about earlier. Have they got Dutch citizenship, then?"

"I think the species must have originated in the Netherlands."

"What, ducks were invented in the Netherlands? That's very specific. Lots of places have ducks."

"Not the species, I mean the breed. That specific breed of duck must have originated in the Netherlands."

"Can your Dutch duck breed with other kinds of ducks, then? The way different kinds of dogs can interbreed?"

"I really don't know enough about the matter, my dear."

"No, I suppose not. _Breeding_. Messy business all around. Definitely not how I would have designed things. Especially when it comes to ducks."

"No, poor things. She must have had a good reason to design it like that," Aziraphale said, though he wasn't really convinced of it. "The humans seem to enjoy it, at least most of the time. That must be worth something."

"I suppose so," Crowley replied, not sounding very convinced either.

"Have you ever tried it?" Aziraphale asked, after a moment.

"Sex? Nah, I don't think it's for me. Far too much hassle involved, and I really didn't design this body with that in mind. It's got sex _appeal_ , sure, but I wasn't really thinking about the mechanics of the thing when I got it made."

"Me neither," Aziraphale said, relieved. "There are times when I've been curious, but, as you say—far too much hassle."

"Did you think that I…?"

"You do have a certain reputation, my dear, what with being the original tempter and all. I wouldn't have given it any thought, otherwise."

"Ugh, all that tempting business is such a mess. I can try to tempt anyone to do anything, but it's not like I'm obligated to get involved any more than that. I knew a couple of demons who went in for all that seduction nonsense, calling themselves succubi—succubusses?—but it seems an awful lot of trouble for the sake of damning a single soul. And then you're left with all that clean-up afterwards! You couldn't catch me doing that."

"Not for the sake of the job, no, certainly not," Aziraphale agreed. And then, in a fit of daring: "But you've never considered it with someone else? Off the clock, I mean."

Crowley propped himself up again, fixing Aziraphale with a stare far too intent for how much they had been drinking. "Angel. I'll tell you flat out: the only person I've ever met in my six thousand years of existence that I would consider doing that with is, I have on very good authority, as every bit disinterested in the act as I am. Or am I wrong?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale very much wanted to blink out of existence until he had the chance to process his emotions. Sheepishly, he met Crowley's gaze. "You're not wrong at all, my dear. I must confess, it's been a recurring worry in the back of my mind over the years, the thought that you might want something like that. I always had an inkling about your feelings towards me, of course—you were always rather clear about them—and I had decided a few decades back that if you really wanted to do that, I'd give it a go. But I wouldn't have tried it with anyone else."

"Funny, that. I always thought the same about you. If you wanted it, then sure, absolutely, but otherwise—not really a thing for me."

"I'm so glad we had this conversation," Aziraphale said pinkly. "Good to get these things cleared up before we're halfway across the galaxy."

"Yeah, might've been a bit awkward. Of course, out there in the stars, physically having sex would be a lot more challenging than doing it here on Earth. A lot more logistics to consider. There aren't any beds in Alpha Centauri last time I checked, for one thing. The conversation probably wouldn't have come up at all."

"Well, I'm ever so glad it came up now," Aziraphale muttered, deathly embarrassed as he turned his face back against the pillow.

"Oh, come on. This'll be something we can laugh about in another couple of years."

Aziraphale didn't move, willing his face to stop flushing quite so furiously.

"Angel?"

"I think I'd like to try going to sleep after all, if you don't mind."

"Alright. Good night, angel."

"Good night, Crowley."

It turned out that falling asleep was much easier than Aziraphale expected. The ease with which he dropped off probably had something to do with the way he could soak up the solid heat from the body beside him, and the easy rhythm of Crowley's breaths. And, at a stretch, maybe even the way that, as he fell asleep, he was still holding Crowley's hand, their fingers entwined like neither of them were ever going to let go, and there was no power in Heaven or Hell that could make them.

xXx

When Aziraphale drifted back to consciousness, pale yellow light was slanting through the window, heralding the morning. Blinking, he lifted his head with a mild groan, and flicked aside the hangover that was threatening to settle around his skull. He banished the last of the alcohol from his system and then took a moment to evaluate how he felt after his first night's sleep. He could understand the appeal, certainly, though he was fairly sure that his feeling of bone-deep contentment had more to do with the company he kept than the benefits of the rest itself. Though he was no longer drowsy and his mind was sharpening by the second, his body still felt strangely heavy, and his limbs seemed reluctant to move.

"Oh, really, my dear. Is this entirely necessary?"

Crowley had returned to his snake form at some point in the night, and reared his head to blink at Aziraphale with wide reptilian eyes that were as familiar to Aziraphale as when they were behind a pair of Valentino sunglasses.

"We've already agreed to go travelling the galaxy together. You don't have to hang onto me as if I were going to disappear in the middle of the night."

"Sssorry, angel. Didn't notice I was doing it."

Crowley unwound his coils until he was draped casually over Aziraphale's body instead of wrapped all the way around him. He stayed like that for a moment, seemingly reluctant to move. Aziraphale assumed Crowley was basking in his heat as much as he had enjoyed Crowley's warmth the previous night.

"I _would_ like to get up at some point for a cup of tea," Aziraphale said eventually. "And since you convinced me to go to sleep with you last night instead of getting my affairs in order, I still have to close up the shop before we go anywhere."

"Alright, fine. I'll get up."

But rather than simply slither off to the other side of the bed, Crowley returned to his human form while he was still on top of Aziraphale, with his arms folded across the angel's chest, his chin resting on top of them as he stared down at him, sunglasses materialised back in place. "No one says _I'm going to go to sleep with you_. It's not a phrase. _Sleep with_ , or _go to bed with_ , but not that. And those mean something different anyway."

"But you knew perfectly well what I meant. Now, get off me, you beast. That tea isn't going to make itself."

"It could, if you wanted it to." But Crowley rolled over to one side and let Aziraphale clamber out of bed, straightening his clothes as he went.

"It doesn't taste the same," Aziraphale said fussily. "Anyway, it's more about the ritual of making it than the end result."

"You're not going to be able to make yourself a cup of tea in outer space. Or in the tropics, for that matter. Better get used to the taste of miracled tea, in my opinion."

Aziraphale stared at him, horrified and frozen in place at the top of the stairs.

"Don't back out over _tea!_ Honestly, angel, you're so bloody English."

"I'm not backing out," Aziraphale said weakly. "I just hadn't realised the sacrifices this little adventure was going to entail."

Sitting up and getting control of his newly human limbs, Crowley said, "Don't think about it as a sacrifice. Just think of it as a temporary inconvenience."

"Yes, of course. Very minor; very temporary."

"Anyway, by the time we get out into the stars, I bet you won't be thinking about tea at all."

Aziraphale sniffed, showing just how much stock he put in the idea, but Crowley probably wasn't wrong. Aziraphale had gone for long stretches without making tea before, after all, and he surely would again. A nice cup of properly brewed tea was really a very minor loss in the face of experiencing Alpha Centauri for the first time. And it would probably be too hot and sticky in the tropics to enjoy a cup of tea in any case.

"Very well," he said. "But maybe I could take a box of my favourite loose leaf along with me, just in case?"

"Oh, for God's—Someone's—sake!" Bounding from the bed, Crowley crossed the room in a single stride and took Aziraphale by the wrist. "It's going to take us forever to leave if you keep going on like this." In a flash, they were downstairs in the back room again, Crowley rummaging through Aziraphale's cupboards, grabbing three different kinds of tea from the shelf and Aziraphale's favourite mug from the desk where he had left it the night before. Crowley then returned to Aziraphale's side, snapped his fingers sharply, and said, "There. That's done. Tea acquired, shop closed, and note posted in the window that you'll be gone for the next little while. I doubt anyone will even notice. Now, angel, can we go?"

Aziraphale blinked and looked around. "Yes, let me just—" He made an encouraging gesture for the back room to tidy itself up. Normally he never bothered with any such thing, as was obvious by the state of the shop, but he wasn't sure how long they would be away, and it seemed like a nice idea to come home at the end of it to a clean living space. "Alright, I'm ready now."

They both brought their wings onto the physical plane at the same time, great feathers unfurling as unused muscles stretched and shook off the dust. The room adjusted itself around them, reality bending ever so slightly to get out of their way. Crowley cast a sideways glance at Aziraphale's wingspan, the feathers as unkempt as ever and sticking out in every direction.

"A duck, you said?"

"A duck, or a swan, or a goose. None of them are really accurate. Convergent evolution, as you said."

"It's a shame it's not real," Crowley said thoughtfully. "It really would explain an awful lot."

Aziraphale stole a closer look at Crowley's wings. They could pass for a vulture's, if one had never seen a vulture before. The feathers were quite shiny, some of them looking downright knife-like, and the smaller feathers covering the bone and musculature looked so thick as to be unbendable. Rather like snake scales, really.

When he said as much aloud, Crowley replied, "It's like how birds are supposed to come from dinosaurs. Birds haven't got scales, but the feathers had to come from somewhere."

"Snakes aren't dinosaurs, though."

"No, but they're reptiles. Don't ask me, angel—I'm not a biologist, and it's all made up anyway. I'm just saying, you're not the first one to point out the similarities. Now, shall we go?"

Reaching over, Aziraphale clasped Crowley's hand, watching amusedly as Crowley fumbled all the tea in an effort to keep from dropping it. "Here, let me help." Rescuing the tea and the mug, Aziraphale folded it all into a handy pocket-dimension where it could be kept out of the way until he next needed it. That done, he reclaimed Crowley's hand, and, spreading his wings wide, gave Crowley a beaming smile. "Where are we going first?"

"Doesn't matter to me." Crowley gave their joined hands an experimental swing. "Birds-of-paradise or Alpha Centauri or somewhere else altogether, I'm up for any of it."

"Well then, let's pick a direction and see where chance takes us."

Hand in hand, they gave a mighty beat of their combined wings and launched themselves out of the bookshop and into a brand-new world that had never ended, and was just waiting for them to explore it together.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've ever tried drafting from dictation rather than typing, which is a hell of a learning curve, so I'm putting this down to practice rather than a serious attempt at crafting a solid story. I recommend all writers try dictation at least once, especially if, like me, they have delicate bodies made of brittle glass. :)  
> Also, the ducks being discussed are call ducks, a bantam breed, which were classically white and did originate in the Netherlands, but the breed was refined in Great Britain and now comes in many colours. They're adorable, but, as the name suggests, very loud.


End file.
